


cast him in violet

by stormss



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Vignette, just nicky waxing poetic about joe!!! for 900 years!!! thats it thats the fic!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormss/pseuds/stormss
Summary: He knows that love is this: it's lounging under groves of lemon trees, citrus lingering on their palms for weeks to follow; it's the tangled scent of clove and ginger and lavender; it's the shape of his husband's hand against his cheek, rings warmed from a day in the sun; it's fingers smudged with ink and charcoal and graphite, and a messy halo of curls, and a laugh laced with boisterous adoration and—Joe.Really, it all comes down to Joe.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 48
Kudos: 242
Collections: The Old Guard ▶ Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani / Nicky | Nicolo di Genova





	cast him in violet

**Author's Note:**

> i....don't know what happened, here. what started out as a few lines in my notes app about nicky being just totally enamoured by joe to work out some writer's block turned into this. but honestly, it's what joe deserves!! 
> 
> the title comes from _moonbend_ by perfume genius. i'm also over on [tumblr!](https://reyesstrand.tumblr.com/)

_Moon sketch the line,  
Moon bend the knife,   
Shine the color,   
Cast him in violet.   
\-- Moonbend by Perfume Genius_

* * *

There's something transient, here, with the salty air drifting in through linen-draped windows and the sound of the waves not too far in the distance. It's something familiar—something _hopeful._ It's been months since they've had this, just a moment to _breathe,_ and Nicky feels it deep in his bones. He feels calmed by knowing Andy is safe, probably scaring Nile shitless as they fly rickety planes in New Zealand. He feels calmed by Joe, always, the warm and solid line of him covering his back. Nicky can't help the twist in his stomach, though, the need to protect, the need to wedge himself between danger and Yusuf. 

"Hey," that familiar voice murmurs. With a small groan, warm breath huffs against the nape of his neck.

"Sleep, darling," Joe continues in Italian, syllables muddled with exhaustion. There's a kiss to his shoulder, a drag of lips he's known since what feels like the dawn of time, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself relax. 

* * *

After so many centuries, Nicky's come to realize that he doesn't need the sloping metaphors, the pretty words, even if he _is_ a connoisseur of poetry in weathered volumes and in every language under the sun. There's Joe, his Yusuf, silver-tongued and so warm, so earnest, cracking every single one of his ribs open to let his heart bleed out whenever he feels inspired. He often jokes that he's struck with god-sent inspiration when he wakes up to Nicky's bed-head, but that's besides the point. 

Sometimes, Nicky thinks that love is the loud laugh that rips through Andy, her head tilted back and hands clasped in front of her. He thinks that love is the way that Nile's eyes soften when she listens to their stories and the way she always drops a mug of tea done to his liking in front of him because she was thinking of him when she turned the kettle on. 

He knows that love is this: it's lounging under groves of lemon trees, citrus lingering on their palms for weeks to follow; it's the tangled scent of clove and ginger and lavender; it's the shape of his husband's hand against his cheek, rings warmed from a day in the sun; it's fingers smudged with ink and charcoal and graphite, and a messy halo of curls, and a laugh laced with boisterous adoration and— _Joe._ Really, it all comes down to Joe. All of it, that capital-L _love,_ comes down to Yusuf, the man who offered him a truce and an outstretched hand when Nicky was still tacky with dirt and grime and the other man's blood. 

In the end, it's simple: love is the golden sunlight, love is the shape of his husband's name on his tongue, love is Yusuf. And that's what Nicky lives by. 

* * *

He watches Yusuf pass on half of their already meagre supply of water and food to a group of local children, all of them skin-and-bone, all of them shiny-eyed at a man's kindness that comes to him without thinking, without a moment's hesitation. He watches as the smallest of them, a girl no older than six, pulls and pulls and pulls on the sleeve of Yusuf's tunic until he crouches down to be at her height, and he's fully smiling now as the young girl smacks a kiss on Yusuf's cheek. 

Yusuf laughs and it is a wholehearted thing, something made of chiming bells, something made of all the beauty and wonder in a world that allows them to come back, time and time and time again. 

* * *

He loves getting to say it, _love of my life, my soulmate, my other half, my heart, my husband._ None of the words really describe what they are to one another, never quite doing them justice, but there's still a thrill when Nicky's hunched over the selection of fresh herbs and dried spices and bundles of flowering plants, chatting idly with the woman behind the stall, and he feels a familiar presence at his side; when there's an arm resting along the line of his shoulders, and he's magnetically drawn closer into the warm embrace, and he gets to meet the woman's eyes and say, "this is my husband, Joe." 

Nicky gets distracted by him for the briefest moment, caught on the way the sunlight illuminates his love's profile, at the blinding flash of his teeth as he smiles at the vendor, feeling suddenly knocked off his feet because he gets to love and be loved by this man. Joe squeezes his shoulder, and Nicky blinks and quirks the corner of his mouth up at him, before he returns to picking through the herbs. After a moment, he's bought what he needs for tonight's dinner, and Joe's pulling him along to different stalls. 

He leaves Yusuf fawning over some homemade jewelry when he spots the rack of novelty hats and t-shirts; Nicky grins despite himself and makes his way over to make his purchase. Strolling back up to Joe, he paints the look of innocence on his face as he hides his gift behind his back.

"Hayati," he calls, and Joe turns to him, one eyebrow cocked upwards when he notices Nicky's expression.

Joe opens his mouth to speak, but Nicky quickly brandishes the corny tourist cap and plops it over his love's beautiful curls. Nicky takes one look at the toothy grin shot his way, hears the startled laugh that spills from Joe's mouth, and he feels it deep in his soul: he _loves loves loves_ him, not a thing in the world could change it. 

"How does it look?" Joe asks, stepping closer. 

Nicky hums, tilts his head to the side, before closing the last of the distance between them. "I can think of one improvement." 

Joe makes a noise in the back of his throat, sounding like _oh yeah?,_ but his words don't get the chance to come out because Nicky reaches out and flips the hat around. He smiles at the tuft of hair that pokes through the cap, and drops his hands from fiddling with the hat to frame Joe's face. 

"Perfect," Nicky grins, taking advantage of the access provided by the brim now resting against Joe's nape to kiss him. Joe grins into it, like always, and Nicky—well, he feels like he could burst from adoration alone. 

* * *

The lab leaves them scarred, deeper than they thought. 

Nicky's wrenched out of a fairly deep sleep when he feels fingers tightening around his wrist, when the air in the room seems to shift as Joe's huffs of breath become more ragged, more hitched, all of their names spilling out of him as the nightmare latches onto him. He pulls himself out of Joe's grasp enough to turn around, to fit his hand to the curve of Joe's cheek. 

"Yusuf," he whispers, then again, a little louder. " _Yusuf._ "

Joe gasps awake and his fingers dig hard into Nicky's sides, his chest heaving. 

"You're okay, love," Nicky says, gently pushing back his curls, as Joe's eyes move all over his face, seemingly making sure every inch of him is right. "I'm okay. Everyone is." 

"Shit," Joe huffs, voice cracking. 

"I've got you," Nicky promises, passing him some water from the bedside table before moving his body to rest a little higher up against the pillows, gently urging Joe to rest his head against his chest. Joe does, and curls an arm over Nicky's stomach, and Nicky just keeps petting his hair. He says it again, _"I've got you,"_ into the crown of his head, before pressing a kiss there. 

* * *

Many years before, they're in a cabin deep in the woods, the crisp line of the mountains sheltering them from unwanted attention. 

Neither of them are particularly partial to these colder temperatures; they're most at home when they're close to the sea, warmed under salty air and the wide expanse of sunny skies, but when Andromache gives them a time and a location, they'll be there. Of course, they should expect by now that she rarely follows her own schedule when there's no pressing issues at hand, but it gives them time to settle in: to dump snow on one another's heads when they explore the wide, snow-covered yard, to warm up by the hearth, to drink tea, to shamelessly share the larger of the two beds as moonlight washes the room in shades of blue. 

The sight of Yusuf's rosy cheeks, brought on by the cold, is on his mind as he stirs awake. As he stretches out, Nicolo comes to the quick realization that he's woken up to an uncomfortably empty bed. He's fighting the urge to slip back under the thick quilt and catch a few more hours of sleep, but it's a hard task after decades—centuries, now, he reminds himself—of sleeping with Yusuf's arms around him. They're magnets, though, and the moment Nicolo groans and starts sitting up to find his beloved, fingers instinctually curling around the hilt of the dagger Quynh gifted him several years ago, Yusuf comes into his line of vision. 

He's grinning, as he gently puts his hands on Nicolo, shaking him the last little way to full wakefulness. 

"You have to see this," Yusuf says in their invented language, a mismatch of Arabic and Italian and a few dead dialects, the words always managing to sound like something sacred when they flow from Yusuf's mouth. Nicolo has and will continue to follow this man anywhere, and so he gets out of bed. 

It doesn't mean he has to be _thrilled_ about it, though. 

"Yusuf," he starts to complain, shivering as he adapts to the temperature outside the bedroom, but his words escape him as he stops dead in his tracks. 

He follows Yusuf's intrigued, wonder-filled gaze out of the large windows and sees what's caught his attention so fully at such an early hour: a doe and her fawn, picking at the barren tree that looms over the expansive property. 

"Aren't they beautiful?" Yusuf asks, and his voice is dropped down to a whisper, as if the animals can hear him, and Nicolo's heart feels like it might explode right in his chest with the love he carries for this man. 

His gaze has long since focused on Yusuf—on his bright eyes, the freckles dotting over his nose, the smile that spreads over his face. He isn't lying when he mumbles, "most beautiful in the world," and if his eyes don't leave Yusuf for the entirety of the time they spend watching the creatures, well. Nobody has to know. 

* * *

Nicky's lost in his own world, segmenting a ruby red blood-orange, the juices running down his hand. 

He hears it when Joe enters, though, his tread heavy as he still wakes up, and Nicky drops the knife and licks the trail of pink juice from his wrist up to his thumb, and when Joe groans in his general direction, Nicky grins around the tip of his thumb between his teeth. 

"You're terrible," Joe mutters, and now Nicky laughs, loud and full-hearted, unable to keep himself from sinking into it when Joe presses up behind him, arms drawn around his middle as he rests his chin on Nicky's shoulder, and Nicky only has to use his peripheral to see that Joe's eyes are closed once again. 

He could stay like this forever, he thinks, as Joe moves with him when he shifts to grab another bowl; to actually turn on the coffee machine, something Joe never seems to consider when he's fighting sleep. Neither of them are particularly picky-eaters, because—well. They've faced famines and they've lived with families that could barely feed everyone. But when they get to be alone, when they get time to indulge, they do. And so today breakfast is freshly-baked bread that's still warm to the touch and citrus salad with fresh mint and pistachios and sunny-side-up eggs. They've picked up recipes from every corner of the world, and replicate them whenever they can so their memory doesn't get too rusty. 

"Coffee?" Joe finally asks, even though he was technically there when Nicky turned the machine on. He huffs a laugh and faces the devastating task of squirming out of Joe's grasp to pick through the cabinet. 

"Here," Nicky says, passing his adorably sleepy husband two empty ceramic mugs. "Try not to break these ones." 

"Once, Nicolo," Joe tries to look innocent as he slides to the other end of the counter, pressing buttons and coaxing a steady drip of coffee from the machine. "It happened once." 

They banter like that for a few minutes, and it feels—it feels like a moment drenched in gold, as they go through the motions of a vacation morning at a syrupy slow speed. And when Joe leans in to kiss him, both of them smiling into it like the love-sick fools they are, Nicky tastes mint and orange and something so uniquely _Joe_ underneath it all, the same as nine-hundred years ago, and Nicky feels—feels like he's suspended in time. 

* * *

Back when it was just the two of them, and they were simply Yusuf and Nicolo, and they only had glimpses of two dark-haired women through snippets of the dreams they shared, they didn't have much besides each other. They always kept moving, dreaming for clues of where to find the women, doing small jobs as they travelled. They never stayed in a town long enough to drive up suspicion, and so sometimes Yusuf would draw portraits of loved ones for traded bread or eggs or a few spare coins; sometimes it was Nicolo who would venture out to find odd jobs to earn them a living. Besides, eventually a war would start up, and they'd move into their roles as soldiers, and it didn't necessarily matter what they had. 

(Yusuf always said all he'd ever need was Nicolo and a stick of charcoal and the breath in his lungs). 

It's the same now. 

They have access to more money than they'd ever need, courtesy of Andy's bartering skills, but they still try to stick to the essentials: burner phones and silencers and extra layers of clothes in case they have to bolt in a moment's notice. They each have forged passports they cycle through every few years, buried in the false bottom of Nicky's bag. It might not be _living,_ but it's why they try to do this—get away, even if it's only for a short while.

He wakes up to find that Joe's gone, which isn't necessarily a reason to worry. But when it's been twenty, thirty, close to forty minutes of flopping around in an attempt to get comfortable again and his love has yet to return, Nicky's stomach twists. He gets to his feet and runs a hand down his face, and starts to consider grabbing the handgun from the drawer, when he looks out the floor-to-ceiling window that gives them a beautiful view of the sea and finds something better: Joe. His heartbeat evens out a bit, and he pulls on the first shirt he finds on the floor, knowing it's Joe's by the time he's slipped out of their suite. 

Joe looks at peace as he looks out at the pale pink of the sky, the place where it touches down on the inky line of the ocean, the sun still making its slow ascent over the horizon. He's dragging a pencil over the pages of his journal, and Nicky settles even more as he makes his way over to his love. 

"Morning," Joe says, eyes lifting from his sketch to Nicky, and his heart warms at the fondness that's always there in his warm brown gaze. He pats the ground next to him and Nicky drops down to his designated spot at Joe's side, stretching out his long legs. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Nicky asks, before humming his thanks as Joe offers him the last half of his coffee. 

Nicky takes a long sip as Joe shrugs, closing the book over his thumb. "You now how it is on the last morning of a trip. I wanted to soak in as much as I could." 

They'd gotten a text the night before, sent to Joe's burner, a photo of Nile in neon pink sunglasses as she posed in front of the Romeo safe-house. It'd been accompanied with a simple message— _sorry to do this to you, but rendezvous here tomorrow night_ —and after saving the photo, Joe had cast a long look his way. It looked longing, a little solemn, but they both knew that two weeks to just themselves was more than they could usually get. Besides, they missed Nile and Andy something furious, like their hearts had been carved into at the lack of their presence; Nicky had gotten a kiss pressed to the hinge of his jaw before Joe muttered something about booking the flight. 

And now they have their bags packed, and last night they figured they'd have enough time for lunch before heading to the airport. 

Nicky drops his head to Joe's shoulder, for half a moment, and offers him back his coffee. Joe shakes his head a little and Nicky downs the last few dregs before he gestures toward the journal. 

"Can I?" Nicky asks, and Joe shrugs, before handing the book over. Nicky used to have to bug him about it constantly to even catch a _glimpse_ at one of his sketches, but now Joe slides his pencil behind his ear and leans back on his hands as he watches Nicky open it to the first page. 

It always illuminates memories he might've forgotten, looking at the world as Joe sees it; he's been working through this journal for the past year, and though it's really just a blip in the long stretch of their lives, neither of them like acting like each moment isn't worth living to its fullest.

Nicky can't help the small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he turns every page, taking in Joe's messy scrawl in the margins when he was taking short-form notes as they listened in to Andy negotiating a job; there's sketches of long-stemmed flowers and stone houses and sheep on the hillside from when they'd stayed in Scotland for two nights a year and a half ago. There's a detailed drawing of a woman's hands inked with henna. Children playing in the spray of a fire hydrant. A particularly delicious croissant they'd both indulged in every morning of their week-long stint in Paris eight months ago. The scratchy details of the Florence Cathedral, the Eiffel Tower, the Acropolis. It's followed by a landscape drawing that fills two pages of the long stretch of flats in Montmartre that immediately sets off a pang of something indescribable when he thinks of Booker and long nights of French drinking songs. 

He doesn't mean to clench his jaw, but he feels a hand on his knee, and Nicky keeps flipping through the pages. 

Some are filled with recipes or coordinates, a mess of lines of writing that go every which way on the paper. There are coffee stains and scribbles of different coloured pens. 

And of course, there's them: hasty sketches of Andy and Booker, laughing from a bet with bottles in hand, both of them up against a pool table in some dimly-lit bar. There's Quynh, when memories had been brought to the surface after Nile told them about her nightmare. The last pages are all Nile, caught sleeping or from Joe's own flashes of memory, when they'd been so worried about her being lost as Andy tracked her down. 

There's pages upon pages of Nicky: sleeping, laughing, his profile as he brings a glass to his lips, sketches of his hands. He feels his face unwillingly go warm, because even after nearly a millennium, he never knows what to make of the drawings of himself—they make him feel _known,_ seen, like Joe's somehow been able to touch his love down to paper. Joe knocks his shoulder into Nicky's when he gets to the page of the sketch that Joe had been working on this morning, and when he passes the book back over, their fingers brush. 

"You're brilliant," he whispers in Italian, not for the first time and not for the last, either. Joe makes that soft face of his, laugh lines deepening around his eyes, and Nicky gives in to his urges and presses a kiss to the tip of his husband's nose, to his temple, finally to his mouth. "I'm so—I love—" 

"I know," Joe murmurs, their noses bumping. He drags a hand through Nicky's hair and it unfurls all the tension running through Nicky's body, both of them meeting for another kiss. 

Finally, pulling away, Nicky ducks forward to trail kisses along Joe's jaw before he whispers: "I wish I could draw you." 

He plucks the pencil from behind Joe's ear and drags the length of it down Joe's arm, using the eraser to swirl invisible circles over his skin. 

"And what would you hope to capture?" Joe asks, playing along, leaning back against the sand, evidently not caring that it'll get into his hair. Both of them know that Nicky's not necessarily hopeless when it comes to art, but of the two of them, it's something that comes natural to Joe, that flows through him like something magic. 

Nicky follows Joe and leans back, though he props himself up on one elbow to keep his gaze focused on his husband the whole time. 

"Everything," Nicky starts, eyes roaming all over Joe. "Your hair in the morning, all tousled around," he grins at his love when Joe pinches his side, before continuing: "The way your eyes crinkle up in the corners when you laugh. Your hands—" 

As if making a point, Nicky takes his right hand and tangles their fingers together, running his thumb along the back of his knuckles, along the pronounced veins and tendons there. 

"—Your beautiful smile. That time in Thailand, you remember? When you found that stray cat? And we were drenched in the rain but we still tried to find somewhere warm for your companion, and you looked so lovely in those golden streetlights, I wish I could have captured you there," Nicky moves his free hand around as he talks, unable to keep himself from smiling as he reminisces. After a moment or two of silence, Nicky makes a small noise and drops his voice down as he continues on. "I would never be able to capture your heart, though. And that, Yusuf, is what I love the most." 

It takes a beat, but eventually Joe huffs the most brilliant little laugh, and says: "And I'm the romantic." 

Nicky doesn't say anything else—doesn't get the chance. He just lands with an _oof_ as Joe pulls him down to the sand, and then Joe leans over and kisses the grin right off his face, hand fitting like it was meant to be there against the curve of his jaw. 

He just—he stops, and basks in the morning, the sounds of the city waking up. He basks in Joe, and kisses him back, because there's literally nothing else he'd rather do. 

Nicky kisses him and kisses him and thinks, _I'll love you 'til the end of time._

Joe breathes him in, flashes him a beautiful grin before pulling him to his feet with an offer of buying them breakfast, and vows, not for the first time, to follow wherever he goes. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! comments/kudos are greatly appreciated <3


End file.
